A Fallen Eagle
by Collateral-Damage666
Summary: Altaïr is an arrogant assassin, quick to action and slow to think. His mission goes well, but what he doesn't expect is for another assassin to be watching him from the shadows. The attack was not calculated and his error is fatal. He stumbles back to the bureau in hopes that Malik will be able to right his wrong, but there's only so much one man can do. *contains character death*


**This was just something that I had in my head that would not go away, so I had to write it out or else I would go insane.**

**I haven't played the first game in forever, so I had to rely on wiki sites for a lot of the stuff I forgot. I just hope I got all of it and there isn't some blaring mistake in here game-wise.**

**Anyway, this is not a MalikxAltaïr story. It is only a Friendship!MalikxAltaïr story. So... yeah.**

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It was like any other mission at first. Watch the victim like a bird of prey, high above the crowds, then listen, watch, wait. Strike. It had been simple, easy. Diving off a tall building with a quick flick of his wrist, the metal blade on his arm had sunk into the prey's throat as though they had been meant to be one. But of course they had. Why else would he have been given this mission to kill this man? His blade and eyes made no mistakes. Those deemed a target would fall, adding to the pile of bodies beneath his feet. That was his job as an assassin, after all. He had been born an assassin: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.

But that was when this mission went wrong and began to unravel like a torn rug, the ground falling out from beneath him, the hands of the dead reaching up to pull him down. He was not the only one who had made this man a target. There was another, lurking in the shadows beyond the eagle's eyes. Until the shadow flapped its wings. Metal met metal in the mesmerizing dance of an assassin's. It wouldn't end until one was dead. Or both.

As soon as their dance started, it ended, a blade in both their bodies. But one was more deadly than the other. The other assassin fell, blood pooling from his chest and Altaïr scrambled up the side of a building, red quickly blossoming on the side of his robes. But he bit back the pain. Guards were coming and he needed to clear the area now before they caught him. He hobbled over the rooftops, barely making the leaps between them. The loss of blood was starting to get to him, a trail of drops left behind him. He synched his sash up around the wound, grimacing as it tightened around it. But at least it would slow the blood until he got back to Malik.

He landed awkwardly on the next rooftop, barely keeping his balance as he stumbled, his breathing coming haggardly. Malik was going to belittle him when he got back, just like he always did. Tell him that he was too quick to action and slow to think. Maybe he was right. If he had waited just a bit longer, watched the shadows a little more carefully, none of this would have happened. But it had happened.

He made the final leap and fell short. Throwing out his hands, he managed to grip the side of the rooftop, letting out a small cry of pain as his wound was stretched and blood poured more freely out of it now. He pulled himself up over the edge, leaving a smear of red in his wake as he crawled to the opening to the Bureau. He fell through the opening with no grace, collapsing to the floor with a gasp. He heard rustling in the other room as Malik got up to see what the commotion was.

"You sound like a child trying to be an assassin, Altaïr," his condencending tone drifted around the open doorway, but it seemed farther off than that to Altaïr's quickly numbing body. His senses were being warped, slowing down. He swallowed heavy and tasted metal. Blood was crawling up his throat. His stomach had been sliced in the attack and now his esophagus was filling with blood. Malik entered the open doorway and stopped at the sight in front of him, the once proud, arrogant Altaïr collapsed on the ground in a pool of his own blood. But then he was kneeling next to him in a flash, rolling him over to look at his wound.

"How the hell did this happen on a simple assassination assignment?" He hissed, peering down into Altaïr's gold eyes that were open to a slit.

"There was another assassin. I was-" he stopped to cough, blood splattering over his face, not sure he wanted to continue anyway, "I was careless."

He expected Malik to gloat at his words, tell him that was what he had been saying all along, but he never did. He just frowned deeper and ripped open the robes to inspect the wound.

"You've lost a lot of blood. Where you were when you got stabbed?"

"On the far side of the Rich District," he turned his head away to cough blood out onto the ground. He felt tired now and shut his eyes for a moment, only to have Malik harshly slap him, "I was just resting my eyes."

"Which is just more carelessness, with leads to death. Do you want to die?" Altaïr gave him no answer, "Well? Do you?"

"No," he manage to choke out through the blood.

"Then stay awake," he hissed before getting up to retrieve medical supplies from the other wound. Altaïr didn't appreciate being ordered around by the likes of him, but he knew that what Malik spoke was true so he stared above, counting the openings in the wooden grate. He had only managed to get to five by the time Malik returned with what he would need. He wasn't sure if the low number meant that Malik had returned quickly or if his warped senses had hindered him.

His blood was washed away, but more replaced it as soon as Malik cleansed it. He made Altair arch his back and wrapped a thin piece of cloth around him, tying it down in a sharp knot until Altaïr swore he couldn't feel his legs anymore and his insides felt as though they were being rearranged, but it did the job and the blood flow lessened a bit so that Malik could see the wound clearly. With the shark intake of breath that came from Malik, Altaïr knew that it wasn't pretty and probably wasn't accompanied by good news.

But the man leaning over him didn't say anything. Instead he started to tend to the wound as well as he could with one arm, piercing the skin with the needle and thread to sew it shut for now. He would still have the wound in his stomach, though, and he would continue to bleed internally. Even he knew that he was going to die like this, so what was the point to sewing him up? He reached up with a shaky arm to still Malik's movements and the man looked at him sharply with confusion.

"What are you doing? Do you want-"

"I'm going to die, so why are you wasting supplies on a dead man like me?"

"You don't know if you'll die until you die. Members of the Order do not give up on fellow Brothers."

"That's not in the Creed," Altaïr pointed out sluggishly.

"It's in mine," he hissed back.

So he let him do what he wanted to do, even when they both knew it would bring no difference to the outcome. When he was done, he stayed by Altaîr's side, saying nothing, doing nothing, but giving him the comfort of his presence. Only when the assassin's breathing became more shallow and his skin dreadfully pale did Malik speak to him.

"The Altaïr I once hated with my entire being and the one lying before me, struggling to breath and choking on his own blood are not the same Altaïrs. I am proud to have known the Altaïr before me and I will make sure that your story never dies, that your legend lives on," he looked down to meet Altaïr's eyes one last time, "Be at peace, my friend."

Altaïr took one last shuddering breath and, with that, his spirit was gone from the world. Malik leaned forward and brushed his fingertips over the dead man's eyelids, closing them as though he were only asleep.

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**Please review.**


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